Driven

Chapter 1 (Room 301A)

I shuffled through the papers on my desk, a light wind blowing past my neck, and clipped them down as I stood up from the worn chair I have sat in for ten years.
The day was quiet, and the air with a slight chill. The office wasn't bustling, and a faint clicking came from the clock the marked 5:24 pm on the wall. The pendulum rocking back and forth as the second hand slowly moved to its tune.
I slipped out of the room down the long grey halls to the assignment desk for the orphanage. The Orphanage Reassignment Center, that is, and a heavy women sat gloomy at the front desk picking at a bag of chips. The door sat, cracked to the slightest, open for those who needed, or could, to come. For those who couldn't, there was me, Rob Declaire, the "on foot servant" to orphans. (Or those who are to become an orphan).
Today, I was on a trip to the local hospital. Nothing far to unordinary, but as you will come to see it would be more than a man could reckon. My boots slid out the door with a skid, and I made my way over to my red truck, sitting slightly rusted at the corners of each end. The bumper sat askew, looking as though the wind could blow it off with a tiny breeze.
The matte black handle creaked as I slid open the door, a small crack creeping from the corner of the window installed a little too loosely, that a stone could chip with out a hitch. But, for those who wondered, the truck ran as though it was new, and for me, that gave it a good review.
So, I slid into the deep, worn down seats, and clicked the key into place. I twisted slightly clockwise, and the engine roared to life, sputtering a bit, but warming up to the cool October air.
A few leaves drifted down from the nearby trees as I sped down 1st Ave., the hospital standing in the distance like a giant. Not a single car moved on the road, a darkening fog followed my truck as I pulled up into the parking lot of the emergency wing. The room to find, 301A. In the third wing, first floor, first room.
I waded through the cars to the foggy glass entry way into the hospital. A few people lingered outside smoking cigarettes, or looking into the distance faintly with grief. I walked past them straight faced, and pushed my way through the group of doors.
It smelled of cleaning products and must, but in a way that relaxed me. I ambled up to the short tile covered front desk, and laid my clipboard onto the counter.
"I'm looking for room," I glanced down slightly,"Er, 301A." I said still glancing down to my papers. I looked up to her glaring at me.
     "The man in 301A died yesterday." Her voice said distantly,"But," just as my hope was about to be cut short-,"He left a note for any one who might visit." She quickly said sliding into the back room.
Light shined at my eyes as she came out of the entry way, it's paint flaking off the edges under wear. She pulled a napkin, coffee stained, from her deep pocket in her scrubs. She held it out, shaking ever so slightly, and I snatched it from her fingers.
The words frightened me more than the fact it came from a dead man expecting me. A shadow, dark, cast across my face as I read the words quietly to myself.
"To Rob,
My child, now an orphan. Is with a man. A man darker, and more magical than any bean to exist. His dark hair, shoulder length, brings out the prominence in his eyes. If you are to find him he has my son. His name is Scar-.

It stopped. A streak, faint and tired trailed down the page.

And, here is where the adventure begins. Just a note from room 301A, and me, Rob Declaire, the man from an Orphanage Reassignment Center.